


Second thoughts

by queen_ypolita



Category: The World's Wife - Carol Ann Duffy
Genre: F/F, F/M, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 16:11:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queen_ypolita/pseuds/queen_ypolita
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three snippets: one is a sort of response to "The Little Red-Cap", two are written in the spirit of the collection; one is a poem, two are not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second thoughts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BlackEyedGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackEyedGirl/gifts).



> Betaed by True River—thank you!

**The Red Cap's Daughter**

My mother had poetry in her blood, evident in how she spoke, how she moved. Words, rhythms, patterns built her world just as much as physical things did. Poetry was what mattered, what made her happiest, and she loved sharing it with other people in her life.

That was mostly us, her three daughters. She raised us on her own, with ditties and rhymes and stories and songs far more fantastical and interesting than we ever heard elsewhere. We used to gather close to her on the threadbare couch in the chilly living-room, and listen to her drawing up these imaginary worlds that seemed so much more exciting than the mundane world around us, or the ordinary stories we heard at nursery and later school.

Her poetry was so much _her_ that that it always seemed strange when she talked about her time with the wolf, that she'd ever needed anyone to help her become herself. We couldn't imagine a time she hadn't been like this, like we knew her, about to overflow with words, eloquence, rhythm. She always said most people need something or someone to discover who they really are, to grow up. Hers was the wolf and the poetry. I think she thought for a woman, it was usually a man, a relationship, like it was for her.

But for my eldest sister, it was trying to resuscitate someone collapsed on the street (she became a doctor). I don't think our mother ever really understood how her life wasn't filled with words, but with looking carefully beyond what people said, with test results on a scrap of paper, scans on the screen, the colours of their samples, the feel of their skin, the rhythm of their breathing.

For my other sister, it was becoming a mother—the one-night stand that led to it was insignificant to who she was. Until then, she had drifted, not sure where she stood in the world, not that involved with anything, but having her daughter gave her the focus and purpose she hadn't been able to see before.

As for me, I had something akin to my mother's wolf: I fell in love with a musician, travelled the world with her, and found my style of storytelling, had the novel she had inspired published after we broke up, just like my mother had first owned her voice when she came out of the woods.

* * *

 **Kristina**

On the list of things one expected (maybe hoped) future generations to remember one by, written down in history books, dramatised for stage, screen or page, the image of Greta Garbo and John Gilbert embracing by the fire wasn't one of them.

* * *

 **Aurora**

Once upon a time, like all those stories start,  
a woman gave birth to a long-awaited child, a little baby girl.  
That was me.

And because this was in a fairytale, there were fairy godmothers  
and bad manners and hurt feelings over invitations to the event of the season,  
the ceremony to welcome me to the kingdom,  
so my future got cursed except  
there was one more chance to put things slightly less wrong.

I can't say I'm not grateful. But it's not a thrilling prospect  
for a young girl, to find out you are destined to go sleep  
for an eternity (or very nearly so) in the middle of  
your happy carefree teenage years.

My father tried to wrap me in cottonwool, of course,  
and keep me from all sharp things. That was naive, really,  
most were essential to what many women of my kind occupied their days with,  
knitting needles, embroidery pins, spindles.  
Dutiful, the women tried to follow his rules, but I kept my head  
and did what I wanted, handled sharp objects just like the others,  
wanted to belong. After all, it was in women's rooms  
and from women's casual conversation  
that I learnt about life, running a household, an entire economy  
how to negotiate a fair deal for all parties,  
how to solve problems and how to avoid feuds.

And I wasn't prepared for it when it happened. It was fast.  
One moment my finger was bleeding, then I was asleep.  
If you can call it that but it wasn't unconsciousness,  
just the same as ordinary sleep isn't senseless.  
At least not for me. I could feel my mind mulling over  
all the things women had talked about over embroidery,  
letting their experiences become part of mine, to give me more tools  
for when I would be the head of this small state.

If there was a state for me to run after, I didn't know for sure.  
I was destined to sleep, and the little court around me too.  
What happens to all the ordinary people  
when those in the castle fall into magical sleep?  
I didn't know if they could keep going about their lives the way  
they'd always done. Or if they felt unprotected  
without a king or queen to stand up for them, tax them,  
trade with them, make use of the fruits of their labour.  
Maybe they were relieved to escape the watchful eyes for a while.  
But hundred years sees more than one generation, and I didn't know  
what would be passed on from parents to children,  
at what point would they simply forget all about us,  
and my sleeping castle would become the stuff of legends?  
I worried about them, had nightmares about our kingdom's neighbours  
taking advantage, all the while hoping they'd fail to notice.  
In my sleep, I debated with myself whether the hundred years of sleep  
was saving the people from hundred years of toil and strife and sickness?  
Or was it going to make them backwards in engineering, technology,  
productivity, and if we could ever catch up with the rest of the world.

With these dreams, hundred years felt both like a flick of an eye and a lifetime.

As it was a magic spell, there had to be a prince to make it end.  
I would have welcomed a princess just as gladly,  
but my story is a fairytale, and in fairytales it is always a prince.  
By the demands of the story he became my husband,  
and it worked out between us and we were happy.  
I ruled my kingdom; he supported me, helped me, fought with me.  
We had children; they were healthy and beautiful when they were born,  
and when we arranged ceremonies to show them to the world,  
we threw all the doors and windows wide open and with open arms  
welcomed everyone who wanted to greet them.


End file.
